he liked his hair in a tousled
black dye mop
on a partly shaven skull-
face was a smirk between youth and aged cynic-
it sat in the form of a gritty scowl
mother never liked (boo-hoo he thinks)
father never knew who he was (as if he'd care)
-too busy buying playboy and cavalier
- looking for the Stephen King story
that his kid walked out of
he lived in the back room
with the window ajar
and a thin stream of smoky incense to hide the smell.
dark, cloudy curtains sucked in by the wind
breathless over a bunched form in the corner
with his knees drawn up.
One hand on his cheek, the other quietly
making lines on his arm with a razor
and watching as they blur and run together.
he likes the shape of his face
and the ridge of his ear-
and the skin that he shows in the glow of the light
he doesn't need to be understood
or figured out
just wanted to play ball with his old man
in knee high grass when he was twelve
and now laughs at his naivety
thinking he was such a fucking kid.
The child in him reached out
the night his mother bailed him out-
but he could have only reasoned with the dog by then-
it was that easy for him to drop to the level she cast him.
How did he become an animal so soon?
did age do that to his father?
did his mother even notice
the scars or see through the lies?
she believed it
changed the channel
hung up the phone
animal- beneath her breath.
His taboo was in his room in the dark
listening to floyd or tool
as the air fluttered his papers-
flapped an odorless breath at him -
the stars were as indifferent
as everyone else
who were reflected in the knife that
cut away at his sanity...
while the rest of the world yukked it up
he tuned into that all night blade station
while the rest of the world shot their loads with someone else
his hard-on was in his hand-
and it looked red and sharp...
it might have been just another night getting stoned
but he didn't feel like waiting any longer
he had waited long enough
practice made perfect